Category Archives: adoption

We drove to the library the evening before, in the gentle rain that she called “tinkle rain” instead of “sprinkle”—until her brothers corrected her in spite of my silent efforts to stop them. She beamed at me in the rearview mirror, her yellow polka dot hood peaked over dark blond hair. Even a quick trip to drop off overdue books is exciting; but I had still more thrilling news to deliver.

“Tomorrow is a very special day,” I said.

She sucked in her breath, dark eyes round.

“Tomorrow,” I said, “is Finalization Day. That means Petunia* will be a Kinnard now. You know how we had to sign lots and lots of papers to adopt Petunia?”

“Yes,” she said, solemnly.

“Well, tomorrow we sign the last paper. And a very important person, called a judge, says ‘Now she’s your daughter forever!’ And then Petunia will be a Kinnard forever. Isn’t that so special?”

Her hands clasped her cheeks. “Tomorrow? Just one day? That’s so short!”

“Yes,” I said, as the drenched green lawns slid by and the windshield wipers squeaked.

“And then Petunia will be a Kinnard! And then she’ll be a Kinnard forever, just like we are!”

“Yep,” I said. “Finalization Day!”

She regarded me with shining eyes. “That’s what you call it,” she said, with a shy smile. “I call it Party Day, because it feels like a party.”

My children know what none their age should have to: that babies do not always move, and breathe, and cry, and come home from the hospital. It took them a while to grasp this. I remember, painfully, the day my daughter asked me why I was sad. I told her it was because I missed Simon. She tilted her head at me, small face alight with hope, and said, “But we can go to the hospital and see him, and then you’ll be happy again, right, Mom?” Once she announced cheerily that we would “go and get Simon in a few minutes.” And each time, many times over, I had to meet three pairs of shining, trustful, wistful eyes with the terrible finality of what we lost. Heaven is real, I believe, but it is a long time coming. My children know this.

I see that knowledge reflected in the way they treasure their new baby sister. They cherish her. I knew they would love any new baby we brought into our family—but there has been a special sweetness in watching them soak up every second of her babyhood. They want to talk to her; to pat her silken curls; to show her their toys. They sing her their own favorite lullabies and read her books, holding them up for her to see. Her big sister is anxious for Petunia to fix on a favorite color. They clamor to help me put her down for naps and wake her up afterwards. (Waking up, with three eager noisy friends peering into your bed, is easier than falling asleep). My children know that these delights are not guaranteed. They waited for this; it was stolen from them before; they don’t take it for granted now.

Baby Petunia does not replace Simon. That was no part of our intent in pursuing adoption—it would be horribly unfair to both children. They are each beloved in their own right, but the tragic loss of Simon deepens our gratitude for the treasure that is our sweet little Petunia. Counting her toes, catching her smile, stroking the curl of her ear: these things are even more precious because we know what it is like to miss them. And one of the things that touches my heart the most is watching my oldest three being big brothers and sister to this baby they longed to love.

My six-year-old, loose tooth sticking out of his smile, bends over the bouncy seat and croons to Petunia. “I’m watching over my baby,” he says, proudly. My eight-year-old tells the baby all about baseball and asks if she likes the Cardinals (she’d better). He also reads books to her, displaying the pictures for her perusal and ending with a teaser for the chapter he’ll read tomorrow. My four-year-old keeps baby entertainment and endearments at the ready. I asked her to talk to Petunia for a few minutes and she darted to the bouncy seat, exclaiming, “Ohhhh, baby, I LOVE you, my little love! You’re so full of IDEAS!”

I watch all this with a joy that reminds me of the progress of a small spring stream, cool and life-giving, curling and bubbling among the rocks. It eases and softens my heart, touching me with hope. But loss also runs in that stream, and always will. I rejoice in Petunia and I miss Simon–not as a comparison, but as two facts that live together forever. I delight in my older children’s delight in their sister, and I grieve that they didn’t get to love on Simon, too. I wish we could have both babies, at once, but we can’t. Life is a tangle of sorrows and joys. Gladness is laced with the knowledge that many things are broken. I am very aware now that many of us walk wounded and scarred, with hurts this world will not see wholly healed.

I think of this as I post pictures of Petunia. I thought of it when I announced the incredible gift of her arrival. I know that some people may read about these joys from the thick of their own pain, and I know how alienating that can sometimes feel. In the wake of Simon’s death, I unsubscribed from a lot of blogs. I slipped away from social media. The view that those windows offered felt one-sided: all happiness and accomplishment while my own life had shrieked to a halt. The blogs I kept reading were those that captured a more complex and nuanced picture of the world. They rejoiced with an awareness that others might be hurting, and they mourned while acknowledging that was not the last word. And sometimes they just talked about books, or offered gluten-free muffin recipes, without making those things markers of a perfectly curated life.

I want to live, and write, with a tone that leaves room for darkness and light, laughter and tears, doubt and hope. I don’t want to be a person whose happiness makes the hurting feel excluded. Because I know what it feels like to receive the worst news in the world, and you don’t ever go back to being the same person who walked into that room. Even when I’m announcing good news, I remember. I know that there may be people reading who are still waiting for anything good to come from their own rubble. And there may be people reading whose wreckage is so recent that it isn’t yet time to even think about the future–to do anything but hurt. Sunny pictures of my children might be like wormwood. That’s okay; I get it. If I could say just one thing to every aching soul, it would be this: there is room for you. There is room for your experience, your pain, your response. You are not excluded; you don’t have to slink away and keep your hurt to yourself. The world is not reserved only for the children of good fortune. Your sorrow is part of what is common to man (and woman). There is room for you here, among friends and in books and music and art and the green, breathing world.

If you are hurting today, I wish for you a community where there is room for you. And if you are a person looking on, sadly and helplessly, at the sufferings of friends, I would say this: make room. Be a safe place. Let your loved ones know that their experience, whatever it is, is seen and not silenced. Bear it with them. Welcome them in, pain and all, ugly brokenness and all. Be that community for them.

These are just words on a page, but I hope they carry the flavor of that kind of community–the kind with room for the intertwined emotions of the human heart. I am learning to make that room in my own life day by day. I help small eager hands cradle a beloved baby sister, and I look into solemn eyes that only saw their baby brother once. We live with our tangle of sorrow and joy, smiles and tears, and try to make room for it all.

Photo credit: First image by the amazingly talented Katie Fenska. All other images mine.

On March 2, a baby girl was born. Half a country away, we stayed up very late–scrambling around the house, throwing things into suitcases, making phone calls, and trying to still our shaking hands and keep our hearts from hoping too much. About fifteen wrenchingly anxious hours later, we walked into a hospital room, exhausted and terrified, and saw her for the first time. A tiny, sleeping bundle; a swirl of dark hair. The world stood still. A few minutes later, I gathered her in my arms. Warmth and weight, and tiny steady breaths. I had forgotten what it was like when a baby breathed. I tried to keep breathing, too. Two days later, one of the bravest and funniest and loveliest women I have ever known signed a set of papers and handed that baby to me again. There were tears and promises, and she was ours: our daughter. Our nickname for her is Petunia, and that’s what I plan to call her on the blog: Baby Petunia. It’s not her real name, but I feel more comfortable keeping my baby’s name a bit more private on the internet for now. She is treasured and adored. Her brothers and sister clamor to talk to her, hug her, kiss her silky cheeks, and wonder at her tiny toes. Mama and Daddy have been drinking in the baby snuggles and toothless smiles and even a few giggles for two months now. Drinking them in, that is, as much as possible when you are reeling with sleep-deprivation and no one has any clean clothes to wear. But that’s part of the deal, isn’t it? We want babies to stay sweet and small forever–but we need them to grow up a bit so we can sleep again. We want to remember every detail, but it’s hard to remember much, including your children’s names or which direction is up, on four hours of sleep a night. So pictures are priceless. Because when the fog clears (someday) I want to remember this: Baby Petunia at almost three weeks old.

I am overjoyed to introduce our daughter. Welcome to the world, sweet girl.

Three little people who constantly ask me when we are going to adopt a baby!

When I announced our plans to adopt, I mentioned that I would revisit the subject of funds. Adoption costs a great deal of money—when we began gathering information, I was stunned to learn that domestic minority newborn adoption generally costs around $30,000—and that’s on the low end for adoptions. I thought we might have to give up right there, because we don’t have that kind of money sitting in the bank. But I learned that very few adoptive families go into the process with all the cash on hand; almost no one can afford to adopt without help. That help comes in the form of adoption loans, special grants, and fundraisers in which family and friends and community get to be a part of bringing a child home to his forever family. And that is one of the beautiful things about adoption, I think: not everyone is called to adopt a child personally, but anyone can be a part of this lovely story. And there’s no such thing as a small part; every gift is needed, and every gift helps.

If you’re wondering why in the world adoption is that expensive, I wondered that too. Adoption is an intricate process (as it should be, to protect children and birth families and adoptive families). The costs include a home study, background checks and clearances, and family profiles which are essentially a portfolio about your family (this is what the birth mother examines as she is choosing a family). Once we are matched with a birthmother, we will begin to pay the fees due to her adoption agency—which cover varying amounts of medical care and testing, housing and food, counseling and social work, hospital delivery costs, and legal fees. Finally, there are legal fees for the finalization of the adoption after we bring our baby home. It’s a lot of money, but it goes to make sure that everyone involved is safe, cared for, and supported.

Where are we in this process? We have spent about $6000 of our own savings so far on the home study; background checks and clearances; designing, printing and shipping profiles; and our adoption consultant’s services. We have raised about $6500 thus far on our fundraising page. To those who have already given there, thank you so much! We’re so grateful. We currently still have about $21,500 to go to meet our fundraising goal.

And that brings me to this coming weekend (February 1st): a dear friend is putting on a fundraiser for us! She is hosting a winter ball for the second year in a row and has decided to donate all proceeds each year to the adoption of a local family—and we are that family this year. She is incorporating several creative fundraising options at the ball, including a silent auction featuring some fantastic items that other friends have donated. And it will be a fun evening with music, some dancing, hors d’oeuvres, a photo booth, and time with friends. If you live close enough to come, we would love to see you!

If you aren’t local, or can’t come but would still like to help, we’d love that too. You can donate directly to our adoption at AdoptTogether.org/theKinnards. Every gift helps! We’d be honored and grateful if you would partner with us to help bring a baby home to join our family.

One of my favorite things about my husband is that he loves to read, and he lets books change him. He reads in random spare minutes when I would never think to crack a book (while grilling pork tenderloins, for example, or as he waits for our daughter to finish splashing around in the bath). He reads faster than anyone else I know, and his currently-reading pile puts this English major and former teacher to shame. Five years ago he read a book that left a permanent mark on our vision for our lives. He ranked it as the best book he read that year—which, considering the shelf space filled by a year’s worth of his reading, is saying something. We have been talking about it ever since.

The book was Russell Moore’s Adopted for Life (published by my husband’s employer), and it radically shifted our view of adoption from an action I thought was vaguely “cool” to a life change we wanted to make. The book lays out a detailed theology of adoption, but what I remember most is Moore’s insistence that adoption is not a second-rate way to build a family, that the children thus brought into the family are no less “yours” than your biological offspring, and that it is not a last option reserved for those who face infertility or have finished bearing biological children. It is just a different way to expand your family; it can be beautiful and profoundly meaningful; and it is deeply needed.

I always wanted to have a large family—my dream was six kids. This was probably partly fueled by my experience growing up as the only child at home. I loved my parents and I had a great childhood. But I longed for someone to talk to drowsily between bunkbeds at night, for someone to commiserate with about unreasonable rules, for someone who knew all about me without having to be told. I watched my friends who grew up with siblings, observing the mysterious understanding and the common culture and memories that formed the shared canvas of their lives. I resolved, as much as it lay in my power, to provide that kind of communal foundation for my children.

I had sometimes thought that adoption might be a part of that process. After we read Moore’s book, I knew that we wanted to grow our family both through birth and through adoption. But there seemed to be good reasons to wait on adoption—the financial costs are staggering, for one thing, and I wondered how much time remained for me to have biological children. Little did I guess how fast that clock was ticking. After two miscarriages and a long wait to rebuild my health, my pregnancy with Simon seemed to go beautifully. I felt that this might well be my last pregnancy, though—my body was tired, I was more uncomfortable than ever before, and my children had already endured a combined 9 months of a tired and sick Mama—with as yet no baby sibling to make it all worthwhile. And then there really was no baby to bring home—just a tiny silent brother they met once before they had to lay roses on his coffin.

For our children’s sakes as well as ours, we want to have new life in our home again—to have a baby on whom to lavish the love we have been storing up for the past two years. And there are babies who need that love. So we find ourselves ready to adopt: not because it will be affordable or easy (it will be neither) but out of love. Whether there will be another biological child in our family someday, I don’t know. There are many medical questions still to be answered, and even if those answers were positive, there is still the towering fact that for me, any future pregnancy would be not a hope-filled wait, but a black hole of terror. The time may come when we’re willing to risk that terror, or it may not—either way, that time is not now. But while we aren’t ready for a pregnancy, we are very, very ready to love a new child. And there are children who need families, and we are waiting to be chosen to adopt one.

I have had two main anxieties about sharing this news. The first is that people might hear it and conclude, “Great! She’s going to be all better. They will get a baby and that baby will replace Simon and everything will be wonderful again.” But adoption is not an attempt to replace Simon, nor is it a magical panacea for our grief. No child is replaceable; the child we adopt will be another one of our children, loved exactly like the others are, like Simon was and is. Adopting a child is no more an attempt to replace a dead child than having another baby would be an attempt to replace a living one. And the grief for a lost child goes on for the rest of your life, while you raise other children and go out to dinner with your spouse and pursue your career and scrub bathroom floors and shovel snow and read the paper. We hope that adopting a baby will bring a fresh source of joy to our family after much pain, but we don’t expect it to end all sorrow in our lives—which would be an insupportable expectation to place on any child, however she arrived in a family!

My second anxiety is that people will hear this news and think, “Oh no—this is way too soon. They need to get their lives back together before they do that.” I hope the story I’ve told makes it clear that this is not a new direction for us; it’s a direction we planned to take for years now, but are simply taking sooner than we had expected. And again, one does not finish with the grief for a lost child, as a person might walk through a room and close the door behind him as he enters the next. The loss of Simon will be with us forever; if we wait to be “over it,” we will never do anything. At the same time, we have gone to great lengths to ensure that we are indeed ready to take this step now. The adoption process builds in seemingly endless safeguards; although I have read many articles about the alarming abuses that sometimes take place under the heading of “adoption,” our experience makes it hard for me to imagine how those horrors happened. We have been fingerprinted and background checked. We’ve had multiple, extensive interviews with our social worker, a counselor, our adoption consultant, and a pastoral consultant. We have presented letters of recommendation and submitted reams of paperwork and attended classes and read books and watched videos. The finished home study has been in our hands for two months while we have mailed off packages of further paperwork to adoption agencies. The process has been grueling but ultimately, I’m glad it’s that way—because that protects babies, and families, and that is essential in adoption, where (as in many areas of life) much can go wrong.

Speaking of the dangers: there is no such thing as a risk-free adoption, just as there is no such thing as a risk-free pregnancy or, really, a risk-free life. But there are levels of vulnerability. We are choosing to wait for a less risky situation, to lessen the likelihood of us becoming attached to a baby that is then kept or reclaimed by the birth family. It’s hard to hold out for this, when I get emails about other situations, but we believe it’s wisest for us to minimize the risk of further loss as much as possible, for the sake of our whole family.

So this is where we find ourselves: in a nebulous waiting period that could last days or months. We are working with an adoption consultant who has access to information about available situations with multiple agencies. We have always been open to either gender and any ethnicity, and incidentally, both those choices could help decrease our wait time. When we hear about a situation that interests us, we ask for our family’s profile to be presented to the birthmother—and then wait a few days to learn whether we have been chosen or not. I mother the children I have with me, and check my email obsessively. I try not to hope too much. We talk often with our three older children about adopting a baby, and every time we watch their eyes light up. I am terrified to pray for a good and quick outcome, because so much pain has come in answer to my prayers these last years. I hold my breath, and wait.

If you are a person who prays, though—please pray for this! And if you are interested in helping in other ways, here is a link to our fundraising page. Because, wow, adoption is expensive. Nobody could afford it on their own! I will write more about that side of things soon. And if I have to write about it in a big hurry because we’ve been matched with a baby, I will be nothing but thrilled.